Entire books on the subject
You can read them
Some are great
Save yourself some time
Just do it
Let go
Of whatever anchors you
To the pain of wanting
Start small
Let go of something easy
Work up to something harder
Keep going, until you’re free
Letting go is simple
Just don’t hold on
Let go, let God
show up
like the sun, each day
nothing special asked
just be there
provide light, when needed
give warmth, always
special things happen
when we’re fully present
when we set ourselves aside
surrender to the moment
give ourselves to others
by simply being there
it starts by opening our hearts
reaching out with love
holding hands with truth
then, like the sculptor
setting free
what’s always longed to be beautiful
Dedicated to Jim and Elayne Devine
for their caring and sharing.
Born sad and broken-hearted
Happiness is so hard to find and guarantee
Most days I get up hopin’
My life will head on back to me
But no matter where I look
I can’t find it, happiness, no guarantee
Some days I feel like packin’
Sayin’ goodbye to all weighin’ so heavy on me
Don’t know where I’ll be goin’
But can’t stay here, luck’s run out on me
One good chance left to make it
Can’t waste it now, things aren’t workin’ here for me
Tried my best to make things work
And find that missin’ part of me
But no matter where I look
I can’t find it, and there’s no guarantee
So I guess I’ll just be leavin’
Takin’ that last chance with me
So I guess I’ll just be leavin’
Takin’ that last chance with me
Note: Another early 70’s poem in search of music.
This one felt like a Country Western song back then. And
yes, this is kind of a sad one.
Time, the ghost
we befriend
hoping
it visits often
Time, we lose
befriending phantoms
slipping through fingers, grasping
disconnected grains of sand
Time, we expect
will bring life
instead, life we lose
grasping at time
finally met up with him, one blustery cold friday night
saw him, sitting at the far end of the bar
hunched over a blue spiral-bound notebook
his right hand, like a machine gun
shooting words onto a shadowy white page
the only other time i’d been to dutch henry’s
was with uncle hank when i was eight
as my uncle pushed open the front door
he cautioned me: never bring a lady here
didn’t ask him why
but after my maiden visit
i knew exactly what he meant
i felt so important
just sitting on a bar stool next to my uncle
drinking a coke through a straw
listening in on his conversation with the two burly men
whose massive sandpaper rough hands swallowed mine
when we shook hands
somehow i knew one would ruffle my curly black hair
before our visit was over
jake, the taller fellow, did just that
not once, but twice
i never knew my uncle laughed so much
james looked older than i remembered
from his black and white celebrity photos
but i still recognized him
his heavy, black-rimmed glasses, were a dead giveaway
a balding portly man
his gut hung, like a small pouch of dough, over his belt
i reached him at the end of the bar
just as his left hand grasped the neck of his beer bottle
without letting go of his beer, and
only barely moving his torso
he swung his right arm around
extending his writing hand to me
managing just a hint of a smile
he said with a slight lilt “don, i presume. i’m james wright.”
his hand was soft and warm
i thought it would be rough and cold
from the hard life he had lived
it wasn’t till much later
i saw the thick writing callous on his middle finger
mine was negligible compared to his
but then, so is my poetry
he chugged the remains of his beer
we ordered another round
as i sat down next to him
i strained to read what he was writing
but his handwriting and the darkness prevented me
from making out even a single word
he didn’t offer, i didn’t ask
he asked when i had left martins ferry, and why
it was the why part he was after
i wanted to move on, talk about writing
and what it’s like once your poetry ends
why i left no longer mattered, but
why both of us returned, just for this visit, did
we both knew more than our poetry carried us away
from this near dead steel town along the ohio river
james made me feel like a mirror
allowing him to see himself
at first, i felt like some hyperbole to him
then i realized…
dead men can’t see themselves
then i understood why i was sitting
in the town’s dingiest bar, talking
with the ghost of martins ferry’s poet son
like james wright
i had seen autumn begin in martins ferry in 1963
he was long gone from this place
and well on his way to infamy
i was still there (here)
an aspiring player, galloping terribly against other young men’s bodies
on shreve high school football field
back then, every night i went to bed
dreaming about becoming somebody important
hoping to escape the choking smoke of the mills
and someday make a difference in the world
here i am 44 years later, literally dreaming
about meeting a dead poet in a bar
locals would remember far longer
than their town’s poet laureate
isn’t it odd how dreams and reality stare back at each other
not only in poetry
but also in fanciful meetings with long-gone poets?
#####
Author’s Note: Like the poet James Wright, I grew up in
Martins Ferry, Ohio. Wright died in 1980. Dutch Henry’s
is still serving drinks, and it’s still not someplace you
should take a lady. Someday I plan to sit at the end of the bar
and write a poem.
Sometimes life seems too hard
All I wanna do is run away from me
Sometimes pressures get me down
All I want is just to be free
Sometimes I get lost in life
Forgettin’ my reason to be
Sometimes I get stuck midstream
Life washes over me
Sometimes there’s more dark than light
It’s no wonder I can’t see
Sometimes the music stops when I’m dancin’
My legs collapse under me
Sometimes it seems life’s questions
Bring unwelcomed answers…
Those takin’ the better part of me
Sometimes life seems too hard
All I wanna do is run away from me
Sometimes life seems too hard
All I wanna do is run away from me
Note: Another one written back in the
early 1970s when poetry was music.
monarch butterflies, following their destiny
traverse the rockies and sierras in magical caravans
at the right moment, coming to rest in dense clusters
in monterey pines and eucalyptus plants on point lobos
perhaps it’s the call of the sea lions
catching rays on the staggered jagged rocks
or just their hearts beckoning them
to carmel’s deep peace and grandeur
in unison, their wings flutter in the cool ocean breeze
sweeping across the enchanted peninsula
always in pairs, they break away from the clusters
finding their way into the sunny meadows
flirting with the fragrant douglas irises and coffeeberry shrubs
until march, the monarchs call point lobos home
a safe haven where god stands watch
performing miracle after miracle
and where wintering monarchs invite their aquatic friends
the seals, sea lions, otters and whales
to help paint the breathtaking canvas
the teachers called larry slow
kids were not so kind
to them, he was the village idiot
from the other side of the tracks
as a special education student
larry was stigmatized, ridiculed, teased
and treated as less than everybody else
though the butt of other boys’ jokes, larry played along
wanting attention, of any kind, from his classmates
teachers and the principal tried their best
to stop the boys’ malicious pranks
they were given detention
notes were sent home to their parents
nothing stopped them
sometimes problems solve themselves
that happened in larry’s case
one day, during morning recess
the boys convinced larry to remove his clothes
and run naked through the hallway
kids flooded the area
laughing hysterically, as larry emerged from the restroom
and began his first streak
he forced a smile
but his embarassment was obvious
then it happened
larry suddenly turned around, facing the boys
their laughter stopped abruptly
as they beheld, by far, the largest penis
any of them had ever seen in their lives
bigger even than their fathers’
the principal rushed to larry’s aid
covering him with his suitcoat
larry seemed grateful for the help
but pleaded with the boys to keep laughing
their laughter made him feel a part of them
after the streaking incident
the boys’ pranks and teasing stopped immediately
and for some reason
the girls suddenly took a liking to larry
Note: True story from my childhood. Names changed
to protect the innocent. Ok, I embellished just a little.
the old woman sits on the park bench, alone
with her memories
most vivid, those from long ago
like in 1936, her father teaching her to drive
she still sees the dark gray ‘32 ford cabriolet
smells the black leather seats
and hears the sputtering sound of the engine
as the car climbs the steep hill near their house
fighting the tears, she remembers the ford
sitting in the garage, untouched for 3 months
after her father went off to the war
he never returned from
she still sees the chair, at the head of the table
where her father sat, empty
long after her mother died
now, she sits alone, remembering
small parts of her life, just before
darkness falls on the park bench
and death removes all memories
he wonders where his life has gone
with so little of himself left to get up in the mornings
the playful boy has a new home
and now walks the banks of the river
skipping stones with other boys
the young builder puts away his tools
to watch other young men build things
the wise gray-haired gentleman
living to counsel others
forgets more than he remembers
and concentrates on not spilling his morning coffee
the old man, living all week for a sunday walk
just sits in his chair, watching birds on the feeder
thinking of all that has been
wondering why autumn leaves surrender to the winter snow
ty cobb, a.k.a tyrus raymond cobb
baseball hall of famer
driven man born in rural georgia
card #1 in goudy’s 1933 baseball card series
to teammates, the man always getting the needed hit
a guy who could steal home
as easy as bonnie and clyde robbed banks
but also the surly, arrogant sob nobody wanted to room with
to opponents, a ruthless competitor
sliding spikes up into second basemen
the devil sneering and glaring
stopping you dead in your tracks
to his friend “shoeless” joe jackson
a “stop at nothing” batting champ rival
one distracting joe at the plate
just to throw off his hitting
to fans, a magnificent hitting, running machine
they’d cheer each time he’d step to the plate
and too afraid to jeer
when he went down swinging
to detroit, the main reason fans showed up at tigers’ games
in 3,000 games, almost 4,200 hits
yet a man with few friends in the city loving his gamesmanship
perhaps that’s why henry ford never built a car called the “cobb”
to history, one of baseball’s greatest, but also
a player whose racial slurs made tempers flare
a man who thought, to his last game
negroes should always play in a separate league
a legend in so many other’s minds, but not in his own
those knowing ty cobb say, to himself, just a boy
trying not to disappoint his father
and go home a failure
to me, a prized 1933 goudy baseball card
a surprise gift from my wife
enjoying the hunt for trophy cards
even more than me
to the depression era boy, opening the waxed paper wrapper
finding the “georgia peach” in the pack, sheer uncontrolled delight
propelling him, like a rocket, through the neighborhood
proudly sharing his good fortune with envious friends
for his hand was the first to hold the card, now in mine
to those caring nothing about baseball cards
especially old musty smelling ones
just a colorful piece of cardboard
getting in the way of the slab of gum in the pack
in the larger scheme of things
a 74-year old door to history
kept open by someone
hoping others would walk through it someday
life doesn’t stop for us
like some bus, picking us up, dropping us off
there’s no stopping what’s always been
and without reason
reinvents itself moment by moment
it just moves through us
that’s all it’s supposed to do
it’s not yours, or mine, to keep
given what it is
let’s not stand in its way
try to slow it down, or
even speed it up
don’t believe me?
let’s hold our breath
as though that changes anything
eventually, we’ll breathe
and life continues on
in case we’re wondering
death brings no end to life, only us
think naming things stops their becoming?
think again
better yet
just let life go on, and
let’s get out of its way
Don’t doubt yourself. Submit to the force of your own trust. You’ve survived worse: reams of self-doubt over a lifetime, plaguing you like death. You want others’ confidence. How can they, when there is nothing but terror and trepidation written on your face? Change it all. Trust yourself.
Note: If Charles Simic, our new Poet Laureate, can get away with this style, can’t I?
Every time I see you
Reminds me…
I don’t wanna walk alone
Reach out, take my hand
Walk away with me
Can’t get past you…
No matter how hard I try
You tie my heart in knots
Impossible to untie
You linger in my thoughts
Sometimes you make me cry
Can’t shake you from my dreams
Don’t even wanna try
Just give us one more chance
To be what we can be
Let the magic of the moment
Paint our hearts, set us free
Don’t wanna walk alone
Reach out, take my hand
Walk away with me
Don’t wanna walk alone
Reach out, take my hand
Walk away with me
#####
You got it…another early 1970s love poem
that wanted to be a love song.
It’s Saturday night, you’re not with me
That much is plain enough to see
Sat at the bar, waitin’ for you
Closin’ time comin’, almost two
Losin’ hope, beer by beer
Life without you, my worst fear
Last time I saw you, in your pink and white dress
I thought what a beauty, I must confess
I glance in the mirror, hopin’ to see you
I look at the door, wantin’ you to walk through
It’s now past last call, this place is a closin’
You’re not comin’ tonight, that I’m supposin’
Part of me says, give you a call
Even better yet, stop by your residence hall
Then I think, what if you’re with him
My chances with you growin’ more dim
It’s Saturday night, you’re not with me
That much is plain enough to see.
Another one written during my college days
in Tucson. As I recall, this was written in 1971.
Again, shooting for song lyrics with this one.
We enter
the green river,
heron harbor,
mud-basin lined
with snagheaps, where turtles
sun themselves–we push
through the falling
silky weight
striped warm and cold
bounding down
through the black flanks
of wet rocks–we wade
under hemlock
and white pine–climb
stone steps into
the timeless castles
of emerald eddies,
swirls, channels
cold as ice tumbling
out of a white flow–
sheer sheets
flying off rocks,
frivolous and lustrous,
skirting the secret pools–
cradles
full of the yellow hair
of last year’s leaves
where grizzled fish
hang halfway down,
like tarnished swords,
while around them
fingerlings sparkle
and descend,
nails of light
in the loose
racing waters.
Note: This poem is about the Chagrin River,
a wild and scenic river in the Cleveland area.
A beautiful river, a beautiful poem.
Scorching hot mid-May morning
UA campus, Tucson
Just a week following Kent State
In psychedelic-colored secondhand school buses
faded tie-dyed VW vans
and even a few in slick ‘57 Chevies, they arrived
Pouring into the Park Avenue neighborhood
the unexpected California sit-in roadshow
clogs the western campus entrance
Throngs of half-naked, long-haired people
Some say, 20,000 strong
My guess, at least a couple thousand
beaded, bearded, barefooted, stoned Hippie freaks
descending, like outer space aliens
overpowering campus and city police
National guardsmen arrive, dressed to kill
Even they couldn’t disperse the sit-in
lasting two long timeless days
Joints burning well into the night
That familiar sticky sweet smell hovering
like a thick smoky cloud over campus
Enough for a contact high
just walking through the motley crowd
The dope was one thing, but for me
the music and dancing took the cake
Upon reflection…
maybe even better than Woodstock
Then, without warning
on the morning of the third day
they left, as quickly as they came
Taking nothing, leaving only
thousands of MJ roaches, empty wine bottles
and their handmade Make Love, Not War signs
Next stop? Santa Fe
Remember that first night
when you saw me watching you?
Those hazel eyes of yours
said softly I want you too
Then when you walked away
you left me kind a blue
I think, pretty lady
I could fall in love with you
Can I ask just one thing
if there’s no hope for me with you?
Catch me pretty baby
before I fall too hard for you
If no is your answer
I’ll simply slip away
That void you left
I’ll fill another way
We can’t pretend to be
something that we’re not
But I wish you’d give
my dream for us
at least an even shot
Dreams need time
just like me and you
to unwind, and then come true
And while there’s no tellin’
where our love will go
Please let your eyes
dance with mine tonight
Maybe then
you’ll see things the way I do
Yes, pretty lady
just one night to show you
what our love can do
But if you can’t…
then all I ask
is catch me please, pretty lady
before I fall in love with you
Yes, all I ask
is catch me please
before I fall
too deep in love with you.
Written by Don Iannone in 1970, Tucson, Arizona.
the eighty-two year old man
with the chalky white skin
and the permanently folded hands
lying in the casket
was the only one to know
the true reality at hand
his ability to see, no longer blinded
by his eyes, and other senses
his mind no longer gets in the way of his spirit
which waited all these years for release
he sees, in a different way, the shadowy figures
lurking, and flying about the room
like ancient winged creatures
right out of the alchemists’ Rosarium philosophorum
visitors paying last respects pour into the room
the shadowy figures multiple in number
like a mushrooming chorus
singing one familiar song after another
like the song of the children
where sons and daughters stand over their dad’s body
crying to be held just one more time
like the song of the grandchildren
wishing one more visit
to get to know the father of their parents
like the song of the wife
begging her husband to return to their bed
that tonight she might not sleep alone
there are no brothers or sisters
so this song, for now, goes unsung
then, the song of the friends, mostly older
streaming past the open casket, offering prayers
wondering when their time will come
among them, the man’s veteran friends
who sing the final song, the soldier’s song
reminding all of death’s disinterested stare
tears fill every eye in the room
as the haunting sound of taps
washes into the parlor
bringing with it
a legion of uniformed men
young and old
not from just one war, but all wars
one by one, they march past the casket
and with their voices lift up the man
and take him home
In Memory of Marie’s Father, Jack Keck
Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Charles Simic, who learned English as a teenage immigrant, will be the new U.S. poet laureate, the Library of Congress announced yesterday. The native of Yugoslavia, who lives in Strafford, N.H., will replace another New Hampshire poet, Donald Hall, as head of the poet laureate program, which promotes poetry across the nation.
A sample of Simic’s work:
The Something
By Charles Simic
Here come my night thoughts
On crutches,
Returning from studying the heavens.
What they thought about
Stayed the same,
Stayed immense and incomprehensible.
My mother and father smile at each other
Knowingly above the mantel.
The cat sleeps on, the dog
Growls in his sleep.
The stove is cold and so is the bed.
Now there are only these crutches
To contend with.
Go ahead and laugh, while I raise one
With difficulty,
Swaying on the front porch,
While pointing at something
In the gray distance.
You see nothing, eh?
Neither do I, Mr. Milkman.
I better hit you once or twice over the head
With this fine old prop,
So you don’t go off muttering
I saw something!
Forgetfulness
By Billy Collins
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
Commentary: To me, this is an amazingly powerful poem,
overflowing with allusions, clever imagery, and voluminous
complexities, and unfoldings. For one, Collins’ reference to the
middle of the night reminds us of our own growing older
and our struggle to hold onto the past, to remember,
glimpse what we’ve been, and perhaps what we are
becoming. This poem rattles my cage. How about yours?
questions once plaguing me
begging me for answers
tumble into their own abyss
following what they seek
like stampeded buffalo off a cliff
it used to matter
everything did
it doesn’t any more
because it all mattered
for the wrong reasons
it’s not about me
or you
what we said
or even did
there’s so much more
beyond our words
and actions
things that really matter
just this morning
two thick dark clouds blocked the sunrise
my heart cursed the darkness
like an old man reviles his last years
filled with intolerable pain
then a funny thing happened
a piece of me died suddenly
something once mattering a great deal
now that it’s gone
it’s clear to me
it should never have been born
gone are those questions
attached to that piece of me
following their answers
into the abyss
birthing them in the first place
Tell me, one more time
I can’t fall in love with you
Let me, once again
Hold you like I do
Say you won’t forget me
and how we used to be
Tell me, one more time
I can’t fall in love with you.
So long ago, when we’d dance
our love seemed so true
Remember how we always were
you as me and me as you
In each other’s eyes
the world, grew and grew
Tell me, one more time
I can’t fall in love with you
Sometimes I think I can’t go on
knowing you are gone
The memories leave me empty
ain’t no life, without you
Give our love one last chance
that’s the least you can do
Tell me, just one more time
I can’t fall in love with you
Written in Tucson, Spring 1971.
Thought I wanted to be a songwriter
back then.
Well past two, we danced last night
Legs out stretched, in paradise
Swillin’ beer, almost blind
Still see your face, oh so fine
Held you close, three slow numbers we danced
Circling earth, time we chanced
Wanted you, to swallow me
Give me lovin’, set me free
With hair drippin’, we said goodbye
My heart’s trippin’, you’re the one I cry
Your perfume lingers, like sweet butterflies
Don’t leave me baby, share your surprise
Just you and me, sleepin’ in till noon
School can wait, mornin’ comes too soon
A thing or two, I could learn from you
You break my heart right in two
Drivin’ home, you were all I could see
Light my fire, set me free.
Tomorrow’s Friday, let’s dance all night
In my arms, I’ll hold ya tight
Note: Written in 1971 by Don Iannone, in
Tucson, Arizona, soon after the release of
Lee Michaels’ single, “Do You Know What I Mean?”
Call us deviants
See if we care
Lost sons, wayward daughters
playin’ with ourselves in the streets
while war boys march through stubborn tall grass
and presidential pardons leave us bare
You can’t see for lookin’
To really start seein’
spin around
there you’ll find
nothing but
autumn rainbows
dancin’ on the two-horned unicorn’s back
Ralin’ electric guitar strings
all red, white and blue
pukin’ Brown Shoes Don’t Make It music
on constipated conformists
searching
for what they call the truth
In my hallucinating mind
no truth to be found anywhere
just hot poop plastic people
pushin’ soft-sell conclusions
all day long
Take your clothes off when you dance
Light up three fat joints
like Fourth O’ July sparklers
Put one between your teeth
sittin’ in the mouth
I’d like to kiss of your face
Second goes in your right ear
deadening it to the incessant flappin’
of your fuck-in’ right wing
Last not least goes up your ass
which you only seem to use
as a place to store your head
Don’t you realize
we’re the mothers of invention?
AND without deviation
there ain’t no fuck-in’ progress
Written by Don Iannone, Fall 1969, Tucson, Arizona
university of arizona campus
eyes closed, sitting alone with my memories
soaking up warm december sunshine
mind drifting back 38 years
early college days
filled with fun and adventure
carefree times
chasing women
drinkin’
dancin’ like fools all night long
student then, wild hair like frank zappa
student now, george clooney hair, but much grayer
learning then, mostly about balancing life
learning now, still about balancing life
innocent then, about some things
innocent now, about other things
young then, full of myself
not so young now, still full of myself
it’s the same river, but
all the water has changed
Written by Don Iannone, UA Campus, Tucson, Arizona, December 2006
mind, like an onion
growing layer upon layer
each wanting to be peeled
explored
granted a reality
a wish to be more
anything transcending the layers
layers growing inside outward
each subsequent one larger
yet all the same, just layers
ripples on the mind’s surface water
curved lines with no beginning or end
no independent existence
never free of all else
in the end
just swirling circles
atop formless prima materia
seeking to become more
than an onion
in the alchemist’s flask
Note: Toss an onion into an alchemist’s flask and this is what you get. What do you get?
old and new, tied together
like the large ball of string
grandma saved and added to
for more than fifty years
a grandmotherly thing to do
not just save string, but
string together family
otherwise lacking connection
without strings attached
her love brought us together
nurtured and helped us grow
like tender young flowers in her garden
each expression of her love
a thread of hope
spun out to us
just when we needed it
even her unassuming smile
unraveled us, bringing laughter
at times tears
always helping us find ourselves
even after all these years
grandma’s ball of string is still working
sustaining us
connecting us to what matters most
possibilities…
what we encounter in life
often less than a 50% chance
something will happen
chance…
not something we take, but
the nature of reality
and how it works
goals…
what we want
often not consistent with reality
also subject to chance
risk…
always there, get used to it,
roll the dice
chance the possibilities
tall mountains all about me
one, each day i climb
some stand for undying hope
others quiet desperation
each a promise, that
from my soul, i shall not hide
with each step, growing stronger
up tall mountains that i climb
circling some, worn trails upward
others, new paths yet to find
no fixed goal or final destination
steadfastly walking, in silent meditation
for there, with my soul i abide
Aristocracy isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Click here to seeing who was “ruling” in Mary’s flower garden this morning.
a breeze, shadows dance
tall swaying grass, a goldfinch
new voice blows through me
just words of men, seeking peace and truth
often simple letters, like you’d write a friend
meaning something at the time
to those for whom they were written
held up on high as holy words
by those who heard and thought they knew
words, it seemed, came straight from God
even now, debate the Bible we do
its words, their meaning, and
from whose lips these words first fell
no one answer, for all will work
my guess, not at all literally true
plump black and yellow bumble bee
pollinating creature you are
always on the move
never an idle moment in your day
your fuzzy body tickles flowers
uncontrollable laughter it ignites
your hum-like buzzing voice
gently carries in still morning air
drifting through the garden
beauty touches you, all along your way
determinedly moving flower to flower
giving and taking each stop you make
the cat in the window, sitting ever so still
invites you to play some dastardly game
need i say
you dare not partake
watching you makes me wonder
a favorite flower have you
your frequent stops, a clue perhaps
the sprawling shaggy veronicas
might be it, at least today
a wish offered to you and all other bumble bees
may flowers sprout a lifetime
and may summer last an eternity
lines in life, drawn between this and that
sometimes easy to draw
often hard to erase
once in place, leaving impressions
like those left by a full moon
on a farmer’s resting field
on a biting cold winter’s eve
like those cut by a determined river
following its surging heart to sea
like those etched into our faces
from years of smiling or frowning
and finally
like those in a poem
connecting and separating words
to give meaning
Charlie is all we think about, night and day.
There’s just one job over here: kill Charlie.
Hate is a terrible thing, but
it’s better than being deathly afraid.
Doesn’t take long to realize that.
War: kill or be killed, and that’s it.
Not very complicated, really.
The latest batch of boots just landed.
They’re just kids, with
no fuck-ing idea what’s in store for them.
369 days ago, I was a boot.
Seems like an eternity ago.
Stupid me. I enlisted, thinking
it can’t be all that bad.
What was I fuck-ing thinking?
You’re never ready for this hell.
There’s no easing into war with Charlie.
First impressions stick forever.
When I arrived in-country,
we hovered base camp, waiting
for 14 body bags to be loaded onto a Huey;
ironically the same number of boots on our chopper.
This place makes you superstitious.
14 has been permanently erased from my vocabulary.
A week ago, some bug started
working it’s way through the company.
Nothing brings any relief from the puking and shitting.
It just runs its course in 4 to 5 days,
leaving you limp as a rag.
The honey-dippers burn shit all around the clock.
In basic, you learn lots of stuff, but
they don’t tell you how awful this place smells;
how the odor of burned flesh lingers
for days in your mind, and
how you never get accustomed
to the smell of death.
And, they never tell you that you keep seeing things;
things nobody should ever see, even once.
But boys from Wapakoneta, Ohio, Sandy, Texas,
and other places nobody ever heard of, see things,
like what a claymore mine does to a man, or
what it’s like to see a man’s head explode like a ripe pumpkin
when hit dead-on with fire from a VC AK-47.
And, no amount of training prepares you to watch
a buddy hold another in his arms, rock him gently,
pretending to be the dying soldier’s mother.
Oh yeah, add me to the list of BK amputees.
The docs couldn’t salvage my lower right leg.
Tomorrow, they move me to the 29th Evac Hospital in Can Tho.
Fuck-ing Charlie mortar fire.
But I was lucky.
14 of my buddies went home in pine boxes.
through the garden she scurried
with overstuffed cheeks, about to explode
she darts without warning into the burrow
next to the tan boulder, midway between
the snapdragons and the delphiniums
her first litter, now grown
and oh yes we saw them
those brown pelted beauties
now likely a second on the way
then, just as late morning sun paints
ivory white streaks on sleeping flowers
mom chipmunk reappears
this time perched atop the boulder
her lookout to the world
a leisurely full-body stretch and
hasty scratch behind the ears
and again she’s off for a refill
from under the feeders at the forest’s edge
Note: This is a fictious poem. It’s empathy poetry
and nothing more. When you think about life, nothing
is more creative than birth and death.
#####
Not sure what I thought dying would be like.
Had some idea from losing Mom, my grandparents,
several aunts and uncles, and some friends.
It’s completely different when it’s you–
when it’s your guts being eaten alive
by the same hideous monster that ate Mom’s.
I never knew how vast a white ceiling could be.
Staring at the one in my room for hours on end
has brought this sense of vastness to mind.
I’m obsessed with this image of total whiteness.
Is this my life epiphany?
Is this what it’s like on the other side?
Why does the ceiling seem so vast and unlimited
when my life feels so small and insignificant?
The pain isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.
The drugs keep me from parts of my pain
I don’t want to know.
Because cancer kills you,
you’d think it would hurt more.
Maybe the pain will get worse,
as I get closer to the end.
It’s funny, as long as there’s pain,
I know I am still alive.
I wish I could hold onto my pain forever.
I can’t.
No matter what they do,
I can’t get comfortable…
with the cancer, the fear it ignites, and
not knowing when I take my last breath.
The cancer feels like a foreign object inside me.
It didn’t come from me, and it’s not mine.
When I’m angry,
it feels like a burglar breaking into my house,
stealing my most prized possessions.
The best part about dying is the dreams.
I never thought there would be anything
I’d like about dying.
They’re much more vivid now.
In many ways, more so than my life.
It’s strange, some mornings I wake up,
wanting only to drop back off to sleep
and rejoin my dreams.
When you’re healthy,
you can’t feel your internal organs.
When you’re dying, you know they’re there.
I never thought about my liver, spleen, or pancreas.
When they’re filled with cancer,
you can’t stop thinking about them.
Often I think I want to die a noble death–
one more noble than the life I’ve lived. But
is nobility really significant at a time like this?
Is it supposed to make dying worthwhile?
We never stop wanting life to be
the way we want it to be.
Not even when we’re dying.
The worst part is the waiting.
I never liked waiting for anything.
I hate it, especially now, and
not knowing what waits on the other side.
The waiting gives you plenty of time
to reflect upon your life.
But not in the way I want to.
It’s amazing how feelings of anger, regret, and sadness
haunt everything coming to mind about my life.
Even my happiest times.
You know…
I can’t bear to mention the people in my life–
those I’m about to leave behind.
I’m sorry, but I just can’t.
For me, that’s the hardest part.
Why does life have to feel so unfinished now–
so incomplete,
like a poem you don’t know how to end?
Why does your voice bark anger at the world
while sitting in golden morning sunlight?
What atrocities have your eyes witnessed,
haunting your soul,
causing your every utterance to cloud the sun,
foment the peace lingering in the air, and
rape fledgling flowers of their innocence?
If I could take it all away, I would,
leaving just the hushing waves washing over you,
carrying your hurt and anger far out to sea.
If I could, I’d kiss away the bark from your lips,
leaving only a sweet trusting smile lasting a lifetime.
The monkey is reaching
For the moon in the water.
Until death overtakes him
He’ll never give up.
If he’d let go the branch and
Disappear in the deep pool,
The whole world would shine
With dazzling pureness.
About Hakuin
Hakuin Ekaku (Hakuin Ekaku or Hakuin Zenji, 1686-1769) was one of the most influential figures in Japanese Zen Buddhism. He transformed the Rinzai school from a declining tradition that lacked rigorous practice into a tradition that focused on arduous meditation and koan practice. Most modern practitioners of Rinzai Zen use some practices directly derived from the teachings of Hakuin.
The most important and influential teaching of Hakuin was his emphasis on koan practice. Hakuin deeply believed that the most effective way for a student to achieve enlightenment was through extensive meditation on a koan. The psychological pressure and doubt that comes when one struggles with a koan is meant to create tension that leads to awakening. Hakuin called this the great doubt, writing, “At the bottom of great doubt lies great awakening. If you doubt fully, you will awaken fully”. Only with incessant investigation of their koan will a student be able to become one with the koan, and attain enlightenment.
freedom, is not:
having the world at will
being whatever you like
having everything you want
going wherever you desire
sleeping in, while everyone else in working
staying up as long as you like
having nothing left to lose
what your willing to fight and die for
absence of constraint and determination
even a completely blank slate to write on
finally, freedom is not your state of being
if you have to think about it
in the distance
mockingbirds, empty cries
chasing us into the forest
a rustle, a flutter
followed by wings, casting faint shadows
in blinding sunlight
until then
all orphaned promises, waiting
for a new start
from a cliff high above
an eagle is born
the hollow mockery ends
reality, conditioned
like a farmer’s field
growing dreams
we feed ourselves and others
mind falling in love with itself
forsakes reality
for maya’s magical spell
faces, only what we see
not what lies beneath them
so sweet, so natural
each sip, intoxicating
each illusion, giving birth to others
each dream spins into the next
then
mastering all forms of illusion
the magician inside us falls prey
to his own tricks
no way out, he dies
everything shifts
the cart topples
we fall out, naked
stripped of illusion
finally reality appears
Note: This poem embodies the concepts of nonduality,
maya (illusion) and spiritual awakening from the Upanishads,
which are ancient Vedic texts, discussing Hindu philosophy
dealing with the nature of the universe and soul.
Rejoice in knowing
your happiness does not depend
upon you knowing anything.
Rejoice in discovering the discoverer
who needn’t search any further
to find himself.
Rejoice in accepting that the moment
is all you have
and all you will ever need.
Rejoice for the sake of rejoicing
for in so doing
you find happiness.
slow moving late afternoon sun
slips unnoticed
through twilight’s open out-stretched fingers
beyond salmon-pink sunset clouds
finally swallowed whole by hungry night darkness
till patiently waiting dawn lights morning candles
celebrating a new day
By St. John of the Cross
1. I entered into unknowing,
yet when I saw myself there,
without knowing where I was,
I understood great things;
I will not say what I felt
for I remained in unknowing
transcending all knowledge.
2. That perfect knowledge
was of peace and holiness
held at no remove
in profound solitude;
it was something so secret
that I was left stammering,
transcending all knowledge.
3. I was so ‘whelmed,
so absorbed and withdrawn,
that my senses were left
deprived of all their sensing,
and my spirit was given
an understanding while not understanding,
transcending all knowledge.
4. He who truly arrives there
cuts free from himself;
all that he knew before
now seems worthless,
and his knowledge so soars
that he is left in unknowing
transcending all knowledge.
5. The higher he ascends
the less he understands,
because the cloud is dark
which lit up the night;
whoever knows this
remains always in unknowing
transcending all knowledge.
6. This knowledge in unknowing
is so overwhelming
that wise men disputing
can never overthrow it,
for their knowledge does not reach
to the understanding of not
understanding,
transcending all knowledge.
7. And this supreme knowledge
is so exalted
that no power of man or learning
can grasp it;
he who masters himself
will, with knowledge in
unknowing,
always be transcending.
8. And if you should want to hear:
this highest knowledge lies
in the loftiest sense
of the essence of God;
this is a work of his mercy,
to leave one without
understanding,
transcending all knowledge.
Note on St. John of the Cross: Saint John of the Cross (San Juan de la Cruz) (June 24, 1542 – December 14, 1591) was a major figure in the Catholic Reformation, a Spanish mystic and Carmelite friar born at Fontiveros, a small village near Ávila. He is renowned for his cooperation with Saint Teresa of Avila in the reformation of the Carmelite order, and for his writings; both his poetry and his studies on the growth of the soul (in the Christian sense of detachment from creatures and attachment to God) are considered the summit of mystical Spanish literature and one of the peaks of all Spanish literature. He is one of the thirty-three Doctors of the Church.
Brilliant beacon Venus glowing bright,
as the shiny gold coin she is.
Wedded perfectly to the sun,
never straying from his side,
and together they waltz
across the April night sky.
With ever-adoring eyes
gazing down on earth,
who, like some blue-green cat’s eye,
returns her stare.
More bright than the brightest star,
casting her mesmerizing light for all to see,
like some astroid-showering soul off to Heaven.
A wandering star to many she seems.
Those knowing her best will attest
her enigmatic family ties.
And helpless am I,
where in her midst I stray.
For in her shadow
my heart hangs deep.
Dangling there for eternity.
Not wanting to be known to others,
sometimes we choose to be anonymous.
Stripped of our identity by others,
we’re rendered at times anonymous.
At times , life’s pressures are too great
we can’t bear identify with the pain
life creates within us, and
we slip into anonymity.
Sometimes we remain behind our masks-
they are all we know
we cannot escape them.
Then there are times, when
without provocation,
we wake up one morning,
no longer liking who or what we are,
and enter the world nameless and faceless.
You appear as a thin dark green finger
along the jagged Georgia coast,
Wildness speaks to us in many familiar and foreign voices
as we penetrate your gentle harbor,
Muscular wild horses lazily munch grass at the water’s edge
and flick pesky horseflies with their tails,
Their hides shimmer in the mid-morning sunlight,
reminding me of bright copper pennies and gun metal gray clouds,
The main road greets us like an luminous dark tunnel
through the mossy green forest,
beckoning us to explore it with our feet
and discover the island’s many secrets,
Eagerness gathers in our hearts,
We sense there is something exceptionally powerful
to experience here on Cumberland Island,
Dungeness House, now in ruins, is unimaginable,
unless you were there to see what is left of it,
The mansion’s thick broken walls, red brick chimney, and
black wrought iron fence are snared in a thick green
tapestry of twisted vines and foreboding weeds,
Venomous snakes now slither where industrial robber barons
and their curious wives once danced,
The music is the same,
transfixing and intoxicatingly sweet to the soul,
Old things abound inviting spirits to come forth,
They are everywhere on the island,
not just in the old weedy family cemeteries,
You could feel them jealously watching you
as you savor the same gems that called
the Carnegie family and others to Cumberland
in the late 19th Century,
Orange rusted skeletons of old cars,
Model T’s and the like,
line a stretch of the dusty road behind the barn,
The old tin lizzies remind us of life’s paradoxical ways,
Things we wouldn’t imagine, like finding model T’s
on this thin green finger off the Georgia coast,
In a distant field, near the white sandy dunes,
there is a watercolor cream foal, surrounded by
its protective mother and stately father,
Our hearts spring open, like new rose blossoms
in an English garden, at the sight of the newborn,
The island’s velvet-soft north beach makes us feel like
beautiful white shells and sand dollars,
We feel conjoined with the soul of this magical place,
As we board the boat for our return,
five gargantuan manatees linger and play in the shallow
brackish waters of the tranquil sound,
All this in one mesmerizing afternoon stroll
across Cumberland Island.
#####
Previously published in Stilling the Waters:
Poems about Finding Peace and Meaning
in Everyday Life, By Donald T. Iannone,
(Medicine Wheel Publishing, 2005)
Poetic Alchemist 